When Ministry Hurts: Paul reflects on his scars
Introduction: From Commissioning to Confusion
On May 10, 2025, I sat in the front row at the Logos Evangelical Seminary graduation. I had a perfect view as our students crossed the stage in full regalia. Faculty laid hands on them, families wept, hymns rang out. It was a holy moment. These young men and women, trained and commissioned, looked like an army of hope ready to serve Christ’s church. As I watched, tears filled my eyes.
But another image came to mind. Just a few weeks earlier, I had bumped into one of our alumni on a walking path. He had once been a successful professional, who set aside his career to study for the M.Div. with great humility. He had graduated with joy and gone on to pastor a church with high expectations. Yet that day, his face was heavy, his spirit bruised, as he had been driven from his first pastoral assignment. His faith remained, and he was even pursuing further study, but his heart was aching.
Both scenes—the radiant graduates and the broken alumnus—are part of our story as a seminary community. We rejoice in new beginnings, yet we also carry scars from service. The question presses in: What do we do with the wounds of ministry? Are scars signs of failure, or can they become part of our spiritual formation?
The apostle Paul wrestled with similar questions in Philippians 3. He was no stranger to scars—physical, emotional, and spiritual. Yet he dared to speak of those wounds as the very place where he came to know Christ most intimately. Paul’s famous recalculation—counting all things as loss in order to gain Christ (Phil. 3:7–8)—was not an abstract theological exercise. It was the language of someone who had traded prestige for prison, applause for pain. In his words, we discover that ministry scars can become sacred, shaping us into Christ’s likeness and drawing us into deeper fellowship with Him.
In this essay, I want to reflect on Paul’s words in Philippians 3:3–14. We will consider his recalculation of what truly counts, his astonishing claim that fellowship with Christ comes through suffering, and his exhortation to press on—even when running scarred. Along the way, I will weave in missionary stories, both my own and those of others, to remind us that scars are not the end of the story. They are often the very marks of intimacy with Christ.
I. Paul’s Recalculation: Losing All to Gain Christ (Philippians 3:3–11)
Paul begins with a résumé that, in his day, would have been the envy of his peers: circumcised on the eighth day, a member of the tribe of Benjamin, a Hebrew of Hebrews; as to the law, a Pharisee; as to zeal, a persecutor of the church; as to righteousness under the law, blameless (Phil. 3:5–6). He was, in every way, the model religious success story. And isn’t this where so many of us begin as well? We come into ministry or missions with achievements to our name, degrees earned, skills developed, even reputations for zeal and discipline. These can feel like our spiritual credentials, the things that prove we belong in God’s service.
But then Paul makes what he calls a recalculation. Using the language of accounting, he takes all those “gains” (kerdos）) and moves them into the “loss” (zēmia) column. What had once been his spiritual assets now appear as liabilities. In verse 8, he sharpens the point with an even more jarring word: skubalon—translated in many English versions as “garbage” or “refuse,” but in the Greek it carries the coarse edge of “dung” or “manure.” Paul deliberately chose a word that would startle his audience. He wanted his readers to feel the jolt—the complete reversal of values—when he declared that the very things that once gave him honor and identity were now worse than worthless, because they threatened to keep him from the surpassing worth of knowing Christ.
This recalculation did not mean that Paul despised his heritage or disowned his past training. In fact, God would still use those experiences in his ministry—his Pharisaic training, his Roman citizenship, his missionary adaptability. But Paul saw clearly that these things could never be the basis of his righteousness. They were, as he says, a false foundation. His confidence had to be transferred entirely to Christ: “not having a righteousness of my own that comes from the law, but that which is through faith in Christ” (Phil. 3:9).
For us in ministry, Paul’s words are both sobering and liberating. Many of us entered the field with our own lists of credentials: advanced degrees, fluency in languages, cross-cultural experience, ministry accomplishments. These can be good gifts. But when they become our security, they can also become dangerous. They keep us from depending wholly on Christ.
I think back to my own send-off in 1990. My wife, our infant son, and I left Chicago filled with joy. A photograph from those days shows us smiling with expectation, eyes bright with anticipation. But within weeks I was pushing a stroller up the steep hills of Peitou, Taiwan, sweating, exhausted, and wondering, Didn’t you know? Didn’t you know ministry would feel like this? The daily grind was only part of it. Teaching theology and church history in Mandarin required endless hours of preparation, and often I had to lean on my wife for translation help—straining not only my energy but our young marriage as well.
Paul reminds us that suffering and loss are not signs that ministry has failed. They are often God’s way of bringing us back to the center: away from misplaced confidence in ourselves, and back to the surpassing worth of knowing Christ.
II. The Fellowship of His Sufferings (Philippians 3:10–11)
If Paul’s recalculation unsettles us, his next statement is even more astonishing: “that I may know him and the power of his resurrection, and may share his sufferings, becoming like him in his death” (Phil. 3:10). The Greek word for “share” is koinōnia—a word rich with meaning. It can be translated as “fellowship,” “participation,” or “communion.” Here Paul dares to link intimacy with Christ not only to resurrection power but also to suffering. To know Christ is not simply to believe in Him, or even to imitate Him, but to enter into deep fellowship with Him precisely in the place of wounds.
This is a startling theological claim. In much of the ancient world, suffering was seen as dishonor, proof that the gods had abandoned you. Even today, in ministry, suffering is often viewed as failure—evidence that we have somehow missed the mark. But Paul reverses the logic. Suffering does not mean Christ has left us; it may be the very place where His presence is most real.
Missionaries and pastors know this tension well. We do not seek suffering, but it finds us—through cultural isolation, family strain, financial pressure, or church conflict. When those wounds come, they test not only our endurance but our identity. It is easy to feel forgotten or set aside. Yet Paul insists that these scars are not wasted. They are the site of koinōnia—fellowship with Christ.
I recall meeting a woman years ago at the Garden Tomb in Jerusalem, a site sometimes pointed to as the place of Jesus’ resurrection. She was battling cancer, and every step was heavy. I remember being surprised that she had come at all. Why make such an effort to visit a site like this when she had little time left to enjoy the memory of having been there? But that was precisely my mistake. Her companion explained that she had not come to build memories for the future. She came because she wanted to know Christ more deeply in the present. She sought not nostalgia, but fellowship. Her suffering had become the very place where Christ was most real to her.
For those who bear scars in ministry—whether physical, emotional, or spiritual—Paul’s words offer profound comfort. Your wounds are not proof that Christ has abandoned you. They may, in fact, be the sacred space where He draws nearest.
III. Running Scarred: Pressing On with Hope (Philippians 3:12–14)
After recounting his recalculation and his fellowship with Christ’s sufferings, Paul adds a striking admission: “Not that I have already obtained this or am already perfect, but I press on to make it my own, because Christ Jesus has made me his own” (Phil. 3:12). These words were not written by a new convert still finding his way, but by a man who had been walking with Christ for nearly thirty years. By the time he penned Philippians, Paul had already endured imprisonments, lashings, shipwrecks, hunger, betrayal, and countless miles of travel. Churches had been planted across Asia Minor and Greece, letters had been written, leaders had been trained. Yet after decades of service, Paul insists: “I haven’t arrived.” This is not a momentary or flat declaration—it is the mature reflection of a seasoned apostle whose scars had been years in the making. Christian maturity, he shows us, does not mean reaching a plateau of untouchable triumph. It means continuing to press on, even after long experience, carrying the wounds of the journey.
Paul chooses athletic imagery here. The verbs diōkō (“I press on”) and epekteinomai (“straining forward”) evoke the image of a runner in the stadium, muscles taut, lungs burning, eyes fixed on the finish line. He acknowledges both exertion and limitation. He does not run unscathed—he runs marked by chains, by lashes, by disappointments. Yet he runs. The Christian life, especially the missionary life, is not a victory lap but a marathon in which scars do not disqualify the runner; they authenticate the struggle.
This is profoundly relevant for those in ministry. Many of us carry scars from conflict with colleagues, betrayals by friends, failed projects, or declining health. Some bear wounds that never fully heal. Paul reminds us that these do not mean we have fallen behind or lost the race. They are part of the course itself. To “press on” does not mean pretending the pain is gone. It means running scarred, with hope.
I think of my own story. Over the years I have had surgeries that left me with visible scars—marks on my body that never disappeared. They do not keep me from moving forward, but they remind me of battles fought and endured. Ministry leaves similar scars on the soul. They are not erased, but they need not end our race. In fact, they can deepen our dependence on the One who has already “taken hold” of us (3:12).
Paul’s words carry both realism and promise. Realism: we have not yet arrived, and we run with wounds. Promise: Christ has already laid hold of us, and He will carry us to the end. Our scars may feel heavy, but in God’s economy they are not obstacles. They are reminders that the race is still underway, and the prize is still ahead.
IV. The Prize Is Not Survival, but Christ (Philippians 3:14)
Paul brings the athletic image to its climax: “I press on toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus” (Phil. 3:14). The word he uses for “prize” (brabeion) is drawn from the world of the games. It evokes the crown placed on the head of the victor, the tangible reward that marked the end of the race. For Paul, however, the prize is not a laurel wreath or even ministry success. It is not survival, recognition, or fruitfulness. The prize is Christ Himself—the upward call into His presence, both now in fellowship and finally in glory.
This is an important corrective for those of us in ministry. When we are discouraged, we often lower our sights. We think the goal is simply to survive—to make it through one more term on the field, one more conflict in the church, one more sermon series. Or we set our eyes on outcomes: numbers, influence, recognition. These may be blessings, but they are not the prize. Paul refuses to define his race by survival or success. The finish line is Christ Himself, the joy of His presence and the fulfillment of His call.
The prize, then, is not a clean record of accomplishments or the relief of having endured to the end. The prize is knowing Christ more deeply in the midst of all our striving and scars, and ultimately seeing Him face to face.
Conclusion: A Word to the Wounded
As I write these words, I am mindful that many who read them are not running with ease. Some of you feel forgotten in ministry, weighed down by disappointment or conflict. Others carry scars in your body, in your family, or in your soul. You wonder if these wounds mean you have failed, or if God has set you aside.
Paul’s words in Philippians 3 speak directly into that ache. He does not call us to deny our pain, nor to pretend we have arrived. Instead, he reminds us that suffering and loss can become the very places where Christ meets us most intimately. To know Christ is not only to experience His resurrection power, but also to share in His sufferings. And to press on does not mean running unscarred—it means running with hope, because Christ has already taken hold of us.
Your scars, then, are not signs of shame. They are sacred testimonies that you have shared in the life of Christ. They do not disqualify you; they identify you with Him. The race is not about perfection or survival. It is about pressing on toward the upward call of God in Christ Jesus, with every step drawing you closer to Him.
So take courage. You may be limping, but you are not alone. Christ Himself runs with you, and at the end of the race, the prize is His presence—face to face, forever.